The Strength of a Heart
by Jennifer Pak
Summary: Mrs Abigail Hudson is a strong woman and she's always known that, but it takes a mysterious new lodger to make her realise the power and the strength of her heart. Part of a series starting with 'Flowers of Hope'


**Title:** The Strength of a Heart

**Word Count:** ~ 1,600

**Summary:** Mrs Abigail Hudson is a strong woman and she's always known that, but it takes a mysterious new lodger to make her realise the power and the strength of her heart.

**A/N:** This has turned into a bit of series, oops. Anyway I'll put up one story with all the chapters in it soon enough and build on that rather than having separate stories. That one will be called, 'Truth is Beautiful' and will hold all the stories thus far, plus anything I add later. Until then please read, 'Flowers of Hope', 'An Act of Faith' and 'My Armageddon Team' first, or none of this will make much sense.

* * *

><p>Abigail Hudson had never considered herself a particularly interesting person. Many people told her otherwise telling her she'd be a great leader a woman to change the world. Abigail never believed them, she knew her limits. Abigail, however, was not stupid. She was a not a wall flower, or a doormat. That was her husband's first mistake.<p>

She realised what sort of man he was very quickly after their marriage and she had decided that she was going to do something about it, yet she was totally disregarded by the police in America. So she decided to write a letter to her sister in London and ask some advice. Soon after she had received a mysterious letter from Sherlock Holmes, a name she didn't know at the time, that told her how to find all the evidence she'd need to have her husband put away for a very long time. After the trial and her husband was secured in prison, Abigail took great pleasure in emptying their joint accounts into her own and flying back to England.

Upon her arrival, she visited her family and informed Sherlock of their success (she could not accept full credit) and her return to London, with an unspoken invitation to come visit. While they kept up contact by mail only, the invitation was ignored. It wasn't long after that, she bought up 221 Baker Street with her now considerable funds and began dividing the building into flats.

She extended another invitation to Sherlock who finally accepted. Abigail wasn't sure what sort of man she was expecting to arrive at 221A but the underweight and quite frankly scruffy young man who arrived was not it. None the less she invited him in and they had a lovely chat. There was something sweet about Sherlock and the old-fashioned way he acted around her. Apparently he was a boy who'd been raised to respect his elders, but there was something else. Gratitude, respect maybe, but it was hard to place.

She had a wonderful time and something about the young man's face softened as she listened to his stories. These little meetings were a highlight to her week. Sometimes he would arrive agitated and refuse to eat, spilling all the facts from a case before her as if she could help. Other times he seemed bright and childlike in his excitement over something.

Over the years their contact dwindled, meetings becoming less frequent as he took on cases for the police, and generally worked harder and harder. Abigail felt as if the son she never had were growing up and leaving home.

It was several years before Sherlock asked her about her rooms at Baker Street. When he arrived with Doctor John Watson, it was clear they'd known each other for some time. They just fitted together so well. She'd always known Sherlock would make a difficult lodger but she was nobody's door mat.

After his death, she didn't know what to do, but remained strong. Wreaths showed up on the street. Little gifts addressed to no one in particular. Letters from people he'd helped, that still believed in the late consulting detective. There was something beautiful and devastating about the memorial on her doorstep. Every morning and evening she collected the little tokens. The scraps of paper finding their way into a fine crafted wooden oriental box the size of a shoebox.

Sherlock had given it to her after he'd trashed the flat in a boredom induced rage. He'd said she could sell it to cover the damages, but she couldn't bear to part with the beautiful thing. Now it held little bits and pieces of Sherlock. She'd never believe that he was a fake, though she didn't know the details, she knew all she needed to know.

John had moved back into 221B some eight months later. He looked happier, and had been buying flowers for her every few days, keeping them fresh and bright as if they were the only things keeping him sane. She needed the extra income, and she could hardly expect John to pay Sherlock's half of the rent on his own. So, Abigail Hudson had started advertising 221C's vacancy again.

~0~

It was a particularly dreary day when Mrs Hudson answered the door, to a wide eyed young woman.

"Sorry, I've come about the flat. 221C" she said skittishly and Abigail led her inside.

The woman introduced herself as Donna Andrew and was rather taken with the little basement rooms. Donna had moved in by the end of the week. The young woman was a student who'd been studying abroad for several years. She'd never even heard of Sherlock Holmes and Abigail loved telling her stories about the consulting detective.

Donna always loved to share some tea and listen to Mrs Hudson's stories. There was something about retelling the adventures that made her feel more in touch with the dead man. Suddenly everything became clearer. She realised what people meant when they'd said she would change the world. They meant she was strong. She wouldn't just bend to someone's will because they demanded it. She only followed people worthy of being followed; Sherlock was one of those people.

For all his flaws Sherlock was a good man doing all he could. Abigail knew she would never have put up with the young detective if he wasn't worth it. She loved him and trusted him like one of her own. Deep in her heart she knew Sherlock was not a fraud and her heart was the strongest thing in her. It was not something that would fail on her. She would always believe in Sherlock Holmes because no matter how mad he drove her some days he had a special place in her heart.

It was funny, that it took this curious lodger for her to realise things she already knew.

~0~

It was nearly a whole year later when Donna woke to the sound of footsteps on the creaking stairs.

It was too late for Mrs Hudson to be awake and John was already upstairs. She knew exactly who was out there. She waited silently as the door upstairs creaked open.

There was a broken off scream, followed by confused mumbling then a solid thump. John had apparently fainted. It was some time later when muted conversation began again. It built and built in yells of anger then fell back into murmuring and what sounded like the laboured breathing of someone crying. There was only one word she could make out from it all.

"Sherlock" in John's strained voice.

She began packing up her things, now it was time for her to leave. She sent off a quick text to Mycroft.

_He's back, the yelling has stopped but they are both no doubt fragile. Give them a day or two to collect themselves._

_~Bell_

She placed her suitcases by the door and headed up to Sherlock and John's flat. She slid an envelope under the door and returned to the street, bags in hand. She hailed a taxi and got out of Sherlock's life once more.

John was looking at Sherlock, staring, memorising him as he lay back in his chair like he'd never left. The sun rose without either man noticing. Neither man noticed the envelope being slipped under the door and lying on the floor. Eventually when John noticed it, he opened it to find a death certificate for Elizabeth Princeton. The name meant nothing to John, but Sherlock gave an odd sort of twitch at the sound of the name.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

"Of course," Sherlock smiled but it seemed forced.

"Oh, right then" John didn't know what to say. He was still trying to come to grips with Sherlock being back. They were interrupted by Mrs Hudson,

"Hoo hoo, John dear have you seen…" upon seeing Sherlock, she stopped and gasped out his name. Sherlock stood up just in time for the woman to rush forward and pull him into a hug.

"I knew it" she whispered breathlessly into his shoulder and Sherlock held on to her.

"Of course you did, thank you Mrs Hudson" Sherlock was just as quiet.

"It's nothing dear, it's nothing" she slowly released him but still held him at arm's length.

"It's everything, thank you, thank you" Mrs Hudson finally released him, looking over his shoulder to see, an owl?

"Sherlock, is that an owl?" she asked.

"Yes," he was back to his old self as he flopped back into his chair, "It seems to associate me with food."

"Oh well then, don't think I'll be cleaning up after it," she declared before she remembered why she'd come up to see John.

"Donna, the nice young girl from down stairs, she's gone."

"Gone?" John asked.

"She's just left, she's paid her rent and everything but she's just left, the flat's empty, it's like she was never even there" she elaborated. It was only then that Sherlock showed any real interest.

"What was her name again?" he asked.

"Donna Andrew" John supplied

Sherlock made another of his contemplative twitches which was usually the precursor to a long deductive rant but he stayed strangely silent. Abigail watched Sherlock and thought about Donna and the past two years. At the time she hadn't realised but she'd stayed strong, her heart had never lost its conviction. There was nothing is the world that could stop her from believing in Sherlock or anyone her heart deemed worthy.


End file.
